Poem by Robert Sidney

Sonnet 11. Though the most perfect style cannot attain

Though the most perfect style cannot attain
The praise, to praise enough the meanest parte
Of you, the ornament of Nature’s art,
Worth of this world, of all joys the Sovereign;

And though I know, I labour shall in vain
To paint in words, the deadly wounds, the dart
Of your fair eyes doth give, since mine own heart
Knows not the measure, of my love and pain:

Yet since your will the charge on me doth lay,
Yowr will, the law I only reverence
Skill-less, and prais-less I do you obey;

Nor merit seek, but pity, if thus I
Do folly show, to prove obedience;
Who gives himself, may ill his words deny.

1. Sonnet 21. Alas why say you I am ritch?
2. Sonnet 12. Who gives himself, may ill his words deny
3. Sonnet 8. If that her worth I could as well forget
4. Sonnet 15. You that haue power to kil, haue will to saue
5. Sonnet 6. When rest locks up the treasures of delight

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